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sonneillon: do you hate anyone? (':

ask me about my demons

tw sexual violence, prositution, trauma, etc. proceed with caution.

Oh how he hated the thumping. The sound of a soft, frail body colliding with drywall in the next room over, sometimes in a steady rhythm, sometimes not; sometimes with added sounds, sometimes silent. He would turn down the sound of the fuzzy motel television to hear, though he always wondered why. Was he a masochist? No, not in the slightest. Young ears would listen, not in interest, but in fear, at his mother behind the wall.

They were faceless shadows he would see from the peephole, taking the few seconds his little toes could hold him up atop a chair pushed to the door before his mother would slap him down. How she would scold him for looking, pulling at his large ears as she pushed him to the closet where he would crouch beside the complimentary safe until the coast was clear.

“Twenty Johnnie-Walker-seconds after you hear the door click. Then you can come out. Okay?” “Okay, mama.”

What she never realized was that the desire to peek wasn’t nosiness. Those big brown eyes of his blinked like camera shutters through the peephole, burning their image (what little he could grasp of it) into his mind for a day he would become brave enough to disobey her. Like any good dog, the young pup was loyal, you see. To a fault.

“’Tiney.” She would call to him from the pink-tiled bathroom, her body as small as her voice as she sat in the bathtub. He would go to her. Every time, he would go to her, because what else was he supposed to do when her arms, her shoulders, her neck, were all too bruised and hurting to clean the sweat, spit, or blood from her back?

It is ten years later and the pup had grown into his paws. It is five years without her, but he can still hear that thumping every time his fist collides with the flesh of another. It makes him punch harder, and harder still. It makes him punch until hair, skin, and blood are pulp in his hands and people cheer. They cheer for the thumping he creates; the thumping powerful men with enough money to buy bodies can create. Who does he hate more: himself, or them? One fist-full of pills places the question on the back burner of a broken stove.

It is forty years later and there is no more hatred in his heart these days, for the sources have long since gone. They remain, as most things in his life, ghosts in his mind. Ghosts aren’t worth the energy.

#( tl;dr: no. but he spent 30+ years of his life tired and angry #hating the men who would buy his mother #and the men who would essentially buy him )#.answered #streiknine